Miss Robertson's Way

I thought of evenings we had spent
with Plato. I remembered too
how she had turned quite vehement
on hospitals, and then I knew.

I helped prepare the garden shed
as she had asked. A little shelf
for books (Catullus) and a bed
almost as narrow as herself.

A cat-flap for the only soul
allowed to see her 'indisposed'
(her word for cancer). Self control
her vade mecum, I supposed.

An easy bolt for weakened hands
to close against the helpful, who
would take her where the world demands
unquestioning surrender to

a doctor's whim. A private place
where garden air might ease her pain.
No tubes to rape a dying face.
No drips, save for the falling rain.

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